


Love Letters - a Damijon fic

by gmartinez12



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Robin (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Superboy (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: Damijon - Freeform, Fluff, Jondami, M/M, Sweetness, Wholesome, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15122933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmartinez12/pseuds/gmartinez12
Summary: Jon finds love letters in his school letter, and he's determined to find out who they're from.





	Love Letters - a Damijon fic

**Author's Note:**

> quick writing prompt from my friends at discord to celebrate me having microsoft word again on my reformatted laptop.
> 
> my good friend @jaidenstar drew some incredible fanart for this fic, and with her permission i added it at the end (cuz it’s literally the ending scene) :D  
> [](https://i.imgur.com/hMrmbg1)  
>   
> Oh and if you got a moment, and maybe some spare change, please consider showing your support by donating a coffee for $3 at my page:
> 
> **ko-fi.com/gmartineztheficwriter.**
> 
> If you really enjoy my fics (and I really hope you do) and kudos and comments aren't enough to express how hyped you are, ko-fi donations are a great way to show your love, too XD. It helps me pay my credit card bills and really motivates me to keep on providing content. And if I get any extra? I might even commission damijon art we can all enjoy. I'll keep writing stories for free don't worry, I love the super sons so much that all I want is to share the fandom with you guys. But yeah, if you like, ko-fi donations are super cool too :3
> 
> Also, if you wanna chat and say hi, my discord is gmartinez12#9930 :D

** Love Letters **

By Gmartinez

 

<

>

 

“Another one…” Jon whispered to himself. He held the baby blue envelope cautiously with two fingers and then took out the white glossy paper inside. It vaguely smelled of cologne.

“ _I picked this color because it matches your eyes…_ ” the letter said. What followed was a series of declarations that Jon had become accustomed to by now.

_“I love you.”_

_“I adore you.”_

_“I wish I could have you.”_

_“But I’m a stranger.”_

It hasn’t been two months and Jon had already gotten seven love letters in his locker, all apparently from a different person. Each was a different envelope, a different kind of paper, even different penmanship and writing style. Today’s was the eighth. If he took it at face value, eight different girls were crushing on him, with a variety of personalities ranging from a very sporty girl to one whose language consisted solely of Korean dramas.

Jon smiled wistfully to himself. It was a good feeling, to be liked by people. It was a good feeling if it was true. But while the first three letters made him blush and wonder and look around at all of the girl classmates he had, by the fourth onwards he was starting to doubt his own giddy excitement.

There was something nagging at the back of his head. Something Damian had always told him.

“ _With every repetitive crime, there is a pattern. If you took even five seconds to notice them, you’re already that much closer to understanding why Batman is as good as he is at what he does, and why I’m better,_ ” Damian had said one night during their patrol. 

Jon heard this in his head as clear as if Damian himself had been standing behind him. He easily recalled the way Damian’s lips would twitch with a smirk, and that cocky tilt in his voice—a mix of arrogance and a matter-of-fact statement. Damian had been so sure of himself, and that was equal parts annoying and endearing.

So, of course, Jon took it to heart, just as he did with every “lesson” that Damian had given him. Infatuation is funny that way—you tend to pick up on everything the object of your admiration says even without being explicitly taught how. It was a natural consequence of wanting to be acknowledged, of wanting Damian to be proud of him, but Jon hadn’t yet formed the words in his head to fully understand this.

He wasn’t Batman, he wasn’t Robin, and he definitely wasn’t Damian, but Jon had a case in his hands. He smiled as he mused to himself that it would be remiss of him as Robin’s partner not to solve it. He took out all eight letters and gathered them on his bedside table side by side. He tried to look for a pattern. All of the letters were different. Nothing about them was anything at all related to each other. None of them had any similarities.

Jon had just about considered announcing on the school PA that he was going to pass around a sign sheet for his dating list out of desperation when a thought had struck him—something very Damian-like.

Even in irregularity, there exists a pattern. When Jon thought about it, the letters were  _too_  different. Almost…intentionally different. As if they tried very hard to throw off Jon’s attempts to see anything similar between them. They had different colors of envelopes, papers of varying thickness, different kinds of pen and ink and stickers and sizes. He thought of how weird it was that they were so different. He expected at least some of the letters to have the same kind of envelope from this one gift store that everyone at school acknowledges as the ‘couples’ shop. That shop would see business boom as almost the entire school population of the district would flock to them during Valentine’s Day to buy cards, and stuffed toys and matching shirts.

Then there were the writing styles. They all had similar themes of unrequited crushes and despair at being anonymous, but they were all cartoonishly stereotyped styles.

There was really never a girl you could sum up as just being sporty. Or a girl that just liked a particular kind of drama. Girls were girls, and girls were just like boys and everyone else when they liked someone. They wouldn’t write accents into love letters. Nobody does that. They wouldn’t usually write how Jon could be compared to the firmness of a baseball bat or the smoothness of a foreign actor’s cheekbones. No one would do that, not really. Most of them should have been essentially the same words, ones where you could feel a hint of shyness, or awkwardness, but a lot of truth in them. The letters he got felt over-the-top. They were dressed up in layers of flavor and colors so much that you start to associate them with characters when there were none.

If none of them were actually real, Jon thought to himself, then what if only one thing was real? There was only the fact that these letters were being sent to him with the obvious intent of misdirecting his guesses of who they’re from. So what if only one person was real—the sender?

“There’s only one person sending me these…” Jon thought. He’d have wanted to ask Damian about this, but Damian was never there with him at his locker whenever Jon got a letter, so he never managed to ask. He brought it up during patrol a few times but they never really delved into it because they were always busy punching in someone’s jaw, among other extra-legal crime-fighting activities. Damian had never really given his thoughts about it—nor did he seem like he wanted to—which was odd in itself since Damian had gotten really talkative ever since they’d become friends.

A crazy, but wonderfully ecstatic thought occurred to him.

 

* * *

**

“Jon, why did you have to call me here if all you wanted was a frappe?” Damian asked.

Jon got back to his seat carrying two tall mugs of chocolate frappe with extra whipped cream and cherries on top. He’d invited Damian to come to this particular café that he was fond of near his parents’ apartment in Metropolis. It wasn’t anything fancy—it was a family-owned business that could only seat a max of fifteen people. It wasn’t Starbucks, but it was cozy, quiet, and comfy, with the soft wood furniture and light jazz music creating a peaceful ambiance. It was the perfect place for what Jon had in mind.

“Well, I had something important to tell you,” Jon started as he sipped his drink. He didn’t use a straw so he drank from the cup, and a line of whipped cream remained on his upper lip like a comical white mustache. He licked it off with a smile and he could’ve sworn Damian’s lip quivered.

“Something you couldn’t tell me on the phone?” Damian asked tiredly. He toyed with his straw and stirred the contents of his mug until the whipped cream had blended with the frappe.

“Kind of,” Jon said, barely hiding the excitement from his voice. “Remember those love letters I keep getting in my locker? The ones I told you about? Well, I figured I know who sent one of them and I’m inviting them to a date and they said yes!” Jon ended with a huge grin that showed all his teeth, and it was all he could do from doing more and bursting into laughter.

Damian’s eye twitched almost too slightly to be noticed. His hand had abruptly stopped stirring his drink as he stared at the mug in disinterest. “Oh, that’s nice. I don’t see how this concerns me, though. I’ll be back at the headquarters if you need me.”

Damian made to leave his seat but Jon put his hand over his, stopping him before he could even stand.

Jon sighed, but it was one more of patience, as if he was patiently waiting for Damian to put two and two together.

“Damian,” Jon said, still with his impossibly sunny smile, “you’re not a stranger to me. Not now that I know you feel the same way. Are you gonna leave before we’ve even started our first date?”

At this, Damian flinched. Jon definitely felt the shiver that ran through Damian’s hand. Damian’s expression didn’t change. But his cheeks flushed so much that Jon would’ve thought Damian had a cold.

Slowly, Damian lowered himself back down his seat and resumed staring at his mug. Jon’s hand was still on top of his—warm, comforting, inviting.

“ I thought you meant someone else. I didn’t think you’d find out,” Damian said quietly.

“I would have sooner if you just told me like a normal person,” Jon said with a smirk.

“I did. Eight times.”

“You only needed to say it once.”

Damian shifted in his seat, then blinked slowly. Then he fixed his eyes firmly on Jon’s. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“So…what now?” Damian asked, his hands now gently holding Jon’s on top of the table.

“Now?” Jon echoed as he finally allowed himself to giggle. “You’re gonna drink that frappe, and I’m going to watch the boy I’ve had a crush on for so long without looking away.”

Damian clicked his tongue.

“Copycat.”

 

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>


End file.
